the cherry blossom accord/equation

”perfumers use aromachemicals to recreate a cherry blossom accord...(an accord is a scent made up of individual aromachemicals, that when combined, create a harmonious blend where none of the individual ingredients are able to be detected on their own).”

the odor of our lustful eyes,

the sweat, a unique commingling,
a sheen of salted oils body bathing,

crushed green petals of peaches,
crumbled together with the softy fuzz shavings,
the sediment of aromatic fruit juices drippings

our blending bottled in our brains,
none other would recognize but we,
to too two smell each other through and over
floors, concourses, cities, disparate distances

our ingredients secreted (secret),
our flavors cell secreted (secreting)
the world’s silly tittering aroma inserted,
our sparking fingertips touching
add a bush burning burnt odiferous

we seat across from each other in an airport
plastic restaraunt and everyone asks out loudly,
what is that smell, feed me that, taste me that,
as we are irradiating the atmosphere,
as we renegotiate our cherry blossom accord,
fresh signatures, updated, harmony of harmonies, notarized

she smiles, I joke, winking,
we must continue
to meet like this,
the fireworks of we,
of us,
to-gather to-gether,
a getting of giving,
she answers:

take me home and
bathe me in love,
give our bodies shelter
from the world outside,
beside a new spice
have I uncovered,
this will require some
discussion+exploration,
the quantity to be added,
the when, and the how!

what is this new ingredient?
asking puzzled and aroused,
she laughs
(a spice already included),
why it’s called
only love poetry






8/23/19 4:55pm

I fret torpidly in my lair;
Your scent is around, but I've seen nobody.
'Tis sordid about me, with rolls of dutiful smoke—
and unleashed winds growling about unseen.
Beside me here stands a perfect mirror, a perfect glass,
But nothing seems imperative, nor talkative, nor patient;
Everything is just silent—what a robust fear—foolish impediment.
Ah, if only can I fast **** this petulant temperament—
do you think I shall feel better, or magnified?
I feel that myself is like a wind:
Thin, fragile, and constantly diving and swelling upwards.
Even my narrative is about to betray me;
Vehemently indeed—should this happen,
I might be able no more to write any poetry—
As my chest above there hysterically bellowed, I shall be pushed upwards—
Upwards, upwards, I am curling upwards—like we all naturally are,
Over the earth, along the oceans, and their sample images of Paradise;
Every single day, at noon, and against this midnight sky.
 
My darling has left, and thus I have but Him in my shabby hands;
With skin marred and scratched and dried by the rude winter;
Ah, say, but who says that winter is clever and polite?
Like my love perhaps is, she is but a relic—or even statue, of blunt disgrace—
She is neither merry nor cordial; she never is aromatic, and flaws us with its brutal haze.
 
I am alone, alone, alone, and totally alone—
O my love, my love, my love, where can I peruse
your felicity just once more?
I have but loved thee all along;
I love thee as magnificently and preciously
as I loved thee one year back and yesterday.
You are my purplish, reddish, greenish, but incompatible moon,
You are comparable still, to the joyous soul of this stained poem;
by whom my love has thrived, by whom I can always replenish.
I shall rise you again within my dreams;
I shall face myself within your sour vapour—but never let you fade.
I shall let you halt my paint, and brush dirt upon it;
I shall let you scatter your grossness over me, and acquire even your sins;
But as long as you are there, over me, I am not scared but keen;
I shall not be mesmerised, nor even heart be broken and pained.
May my heart break, so long as it has its consolation floating by.
 
Ah, and who, beside this breakable moon—can claim my erupt forth;
To comfort my sleep and give solace to my shrieking doors;
And throw unheeded calm into my quiet walkways;
While looking me in the eyes as we step sideways.
Who can ambush my chest along this hairy path;
With a charm far stronger than yon behind the grass;
Who can heal me, and who can heal me not,
Ah, have I but still the courage to make this right?
I shall look for you again amongst the city roars and rumblings;
I shall look for you again in the mornings—and amongst the bleakness of evenings.
 
Look, my love, how the rainbows have a turquoise face today;
So beautifully crafted and charted like the skies of yesterday;
I should fall asleep now, but still—I don't want to be lulled alone without you;
Even though you are faraway, I can still feel your breath and air.
Your absence, as I hope then, shall fast perish;
For I want to grow old not by the countenance of miseries.
I want to be injected into your space now—as maelstroms of sleeps greet me again,
And as the clouds of heaven start to feed on me;
I shall feel light again, and thereby not turn grey;
I shall feel that you have welcomed me back;
I shall feel your breath tingling by the sides of cheeks;
I shall feel my hairs anew—as they raise against the corners of my neck.
 
And there we shall play together against the sky;
Against its pedal who anew blooms in wan suspicion;
Ah, my love, I shall entangle you then—in my varied, and multiplied visions;
I shall tell you the funniest of one thousand lies.
I shall give you only the finest of kisses, and jokes;
I shall startle you by my poem and my beautiful black locks.
Ah, thee, to you whom I have written this poem, and shall always do;
To you whom I have loved, and have to this day admired;
To you for whom a forest of grace and salutations has been dreamed;
To you for whom my heartbeat grows, and fastens and slows,
To you for whom I woke up today, and open my eyes tomorrow;
 
To you whom I have loved in the name of Him;
To you for whom I lit the glitters of the sky;
To you for whom my heart was startled and passed justly by;
To you for whom my palms sweated and eyes started to cry;
 
To you for whom griefs disperse into brighter saturations;
To you for whom life continues, and gives birth to more immediate sparkles;
To you for whom I have celebrated my soul; and made one true promise;
To you by whom I have halved my heart, and without whom shall never 'come the same anew;
 
To you for whom all favours are spelled, and words dedicated;
To you for whose grins I shall wait again forever;
To you whose eyes are darker than the midnight river;
To you by whom my belief shall stay strong, and consciously devoted;
 
Ah, you, my love, so this remorse shall fall over me and back again,
With creases I curse, and remarks that my ruined chest censures;
Abhorred by the moon, and its very own celestial abode—
Which shakes and stretches along the crimson universe,
I have thrown my life into your horizontal, and longitudinal spectrums—
In both superficial and artificial ways, you have haunted me.
Ah, but still—cannot I erase your name from the fruit of every essentiality;
You are the sweet tyranny of my soul, and the leaves of my very gay sensibility;
You are the throne of my love; you are the specified satire—
though but funny and not—you are my destiny.
 
Like a vinyl birch tree that howls when stabbed, I have become your prey;
I shall wait for you at dawn and give my whole self to you at dusk.
I shall wait for you to claim my destined—and prescribed heart;
I shall wait for you to finish your abominable task,
As long as you can emerge for me—and listen to my poems and follow what I say.
 
And like a scar that stays for long in one's fair skin;
You are stubborn though things not go well;
Ah, let's now confess that your heart needs me;
But still—you are too proud, and far too docile, to admit your sin.
The question now is: how should we ever eradicate love?
Love is a prison, I know, and it is the most unforgiving jail;
It is merciless and painted by colours of abomination;
And nothing in it is plentiful—like Him in the shivering sky;
It is where tears crowd and gather—as I have perused;
It is where insolence and crudeness unite—even when not provoked.
 
Ah, my love, but have I fallen into this snare of love—whether or not I want it;
And your gaze is still the sole sweetness I hope to meet;
Never is my love sweeter—or petite, than a grain of wheat;
You are the foreverness for whom I shall sweat;
 
And in the loss of you lies my venomous assassination;
And I am wary now—and afraid of facing this everlasting trepidation;
Your shadows shall never go away, and for this I can be wronged;
For when I am dying—shall my mouth be falling asleep and recite your song.
 
My art has torn; it has been filthily murdered.
Its fervour was lost in, as you saw, just one wave of scenic mortality—
But still, the true essence might still be there, as it was once fertilised—
As by you, my Imagist, my Wilde, I was terrifically astonished by you.
You are my painting, my picture, and even the shared portrait of my self.
You share my veins, as how I supposedly hold some share of your blood.
Ah, and I remember now, how your warm blood did once touch my wrists—
So engagingly, so thrillingly, so brilliantly.
My heart, my head, my mind—all were brutally consumed by thee.
 
I want to die by thee, but you pierced my heart—
and in brief, made my spine grow dead tears;
Everything grew worse and I was manifested into your bitter triangle;
I was your lonesome moon who got forgotten soon;
Ah, it seems that yon French lady is better than I am—
With her curly hair and tittering oceanic eyes,
She was the filter of your noons, the storms
And devilish desires of your nights.
She was as gusty and spooky as the windblown thorn;
poisonous were her words, but still, you carried yourself to her.
I fretted and screamed and my blood gurgled—
but I guess I was fortunate still;
for I had the chance to keep myself pure and chaste
while you unstoppably sinned and defiled yourself.
So you were disgraced.
 
And you were enduringly consumed by your own fires;
The fires to which you confined yourself;
Not the calming, sooting, leafy bonfires we use in winter;
but ones you will also greet in the earth after.
Ah, thee, I felt but disgust towards your molested heart and deeds;
You grew for yourself, instead good ones—sick, avoidable seeds.
At that time, I swore to never ever share any more of my blood with you;
I would looked for one more honest, playful; one decorated with more virtues.
 
But still—as I said before,
I have again decided to sit and pray for you.
While my love for the other is not true;
It has faded and you are irreplaceable still;
You are congested, invalid, and not new;
But should you come back again to me;
I shall receive you with open hands
And one seal of heartfelt goodwill.
Ah, my love, look at the smiling heavens above—
As night deepens and snowfalls come low,
I shall think and think again about our postponed love—
Which, perhaps—though happens not amongst the jumble of this juvenile night,
Shall come again when dusk is cleared, and the first bud of spring leaps into sight.

Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.

When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.

As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.

They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.

The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts

I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,  
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.

Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.

We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.

We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.

Here lies wealthy aunt Dot
Let us pray for her, people
Let us pray for Dorothy Keeper
For here comes the grim reaper.

They called her Marie-Antoinette
Breaking fast on cake and tea
While gorging whole on tamarinds
And tittering her high-squealed laughs.

She wore her sky-scraper heels
With such care, they'd always look new
With no scuff marks, but in the end,
She hurt her back and broke her ankle!

She lived in such a mansion
You'd need an elevator to get to ***
Her gardener had his own butler
While her dogs had weekly pedicures.

Yet when they found her, on her last
She was bedecked in every wealth imaginable
Burdened tables, with rarest delicacies
But not a crumb of mercy on her plate.

You see, the ones she thought valued her
Were simply riding high on tails
They were cloven deep through the ranks
While rank decay sat fat in every corner.

Always one to expect return
She did little to relieve that scorned idea
When nephews begged for bursaries
She'd shoo them gone; let pets sap cream.

Now, upon her mortal hour, her eyes did sink
So deep in sharp despair.
Her ragged breath her kin did hear
And mere perfunctory embrace she felt.

Her sickness begged a touch of care
A little sweetness, a glance of kindness
But pitied eyes swept aghast around
At the splendid array in her mausoleum.

Nephews now grown men stand and look
They shoo not the flies around her mouth
For minds locked ******* heartless past
Fail to discover any worthy pattern.

No one could give what she desired
So they turned all from patient, one by one
To their cosy, quiet homes
Save the little boy, silent by the door.

They knew not that their paltry lesson in humanity
Screamed for mercy; to alter, make good flow
The little boy turned, to change the tide
*** for tat pays not; we should all know that!

Peace and mercy, she but sought now
And in his utter silence, he gave her that
Her eyes pled such deep appeal
His heart bled at their steep reveal.

Most unfortunate turn of events unseen
When the boy now held beneath his eyes
Heavy, darkened rings of suffering
Intense subject of compassion.

Years later, no one would know that
Upon her deathbed, she bequeathed him silent gift:
That, until kin break spited cycle
He would bear the brunt forthwith.

And now, Aunt Dot has died
All return to home and hearth
Yet no redemption till the day is due
And the soul awaits .......ever patient.

Star Toucher, 22 February 2013

Paralyxzations of the worn spandex, still early
Pizza and beer on a comfy couch
And the crunchy old leaves
That decorate the walls of my house
Glimpses of nature in an urban world.
I think a bit, I feel my quads
As they burn with lactic acid pain
That never leaves an athlete in season.
The greasy cheeseboard and brown dried leaves
Reflect the feelings of sweat and drained
Emotions and motivations, sleep is near.
The night is young, but sleep is near.
Parties call to me with voices loud
Over my tired and disabled carcass
The incessant fight between body and mind begins

Why should I venture out into the world?
What is fun if it can come
Only through grinding my *** in someone’s crotch?
Shall I not find the comfort in my bed,
The warmth of blankets that smell like me, or else
The shared cup of tea with roommates and friends
Not the bedroom tussle with muscled men
I am whole within myself.
Climbing trees or dreaming of oceans
Running up hills and conquering waters
All are my fun; my life is full remembering
The past adventures with inebriation and indiscretions  
It is now time for soul and body to heal.

Men in the bars had their inhuman strength
To down the pitchers and pints of beer
Loud mouth ******* who seem so compelling
Move as kings among the tittering ******
Magnificent in their swarthy confidence
Until their blood alcohol level reaches a new high
Creating a beast without inhibitions
Till no doesn’t mean no, but an invitation to come
Shall my voice fail? Or shall it come to be
The voice of a victim? And shall my quads
Have the strength to run, or the foresight to
Begin in a place much friendlier than now
A part of the brain and a part of the heart
And next is the knowledge of things to come
Not the dulled senses of an exhausted drunk.

I say, “But Saturday is my only night
When morning practice is not imminent”
Parties are the basis for college fun; hence my wish
Together with people and dancing and drink
Shall I finally reach the effervescent image.
Although sleep is upon my weary bones,
The path of fun is clearly wrought with dangers, and love.
The triumph of conquest blows the ringing horns
Until my sparkled dress comes down from the hanger
And uggs are rejected for heels of blue
I cause boys to pile orders for beer and ***** tonics
On their max-out cards. I taste the metallic twang
Of future mistakes and regrets.

I had a boyfriend.
His name was - well, I can't tell you.
He came into poverty of spirit - like the rest of us.

Jesus!  Who left us here!
We looked around.
Didn't recognize a thing,
which was why
we congregated, delicate souls together,
following one another around.
We recognized each other,
our sense of loss,
what was meant to be.

Like a dutiful pup
returning a dry stick,
we tried to make a go of it,
struggling against all hope
to navigate our way through
unfamiliar
hostile
landscape.

In the end,
it was not enough.
So sad.
Little did we know --
it was all just a game
and we were the pawns.

Far, far beyond the universe
could be heard tittering
teacup laughter.
Massive,
caliginous clouds
bowed to the sound, and
scattered,
foiling
their resolve
to wreak havoc.
In their wake,
a breath of dampness escaped,
a blessing.

The dry stick
has been planted.
Tiny outstretched
green buds
beg to be noticed,
nurtured.
Maybe we can make this our home
after all.

Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far
that I'm tittering on the cusp of something
that is even remotely coherent.
I've been repeating sentences in my head,
over and over again so I'm not to forget it.
This waltz with reality is getting tiring,
and my wits are too dull to cut this rug.
I believe that there is an old saying about that
but I could be confused with something other then words.
I never did like the number seven
masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less,
there is just three more steps, and
a skipped heart beat, and then, and only
then I can finally come to my conclusion.

Sitting down
Tittering on the edge of falling down
Debating on where I stand
When it comes to love and war

Staring at the sky
Wondering how long the sun will shine
Whether the stars will cause chaos
If the universe will fade away

How can love exist
When there are so many others
How can we exist
When there is nothing to live for

But I tell myself I don’t need it

Brow furrowed, eyes shifty
Always trying to tell my heart to shut up
Listening to it gets me nowhere
No thanks, it’s too dangerous of a mission
What’s that?
Your rapid heartbeats don’t resonate
Houston; abort

But I tell myself I don’t need it

The hugging, the laughter, the sparkle in others eyes
I’d rather be a napkin in the corner of the street
Existing in a permanent state of rejection
Once desired for a purpose no longer
Once sought after for a grimy hand in need
Now free to blow away at my convenience; haphazardly, twitching down the bumpy road, soiled with the dirt of my one human encounter
Maybe I’ll make a decent home for a cockroach
Or simply dissolve into the urban street I was tossed into

But I tell myself I don’t need it

So where’s my gun?

Where’s my bottle of pills?

Where’s the bus I’ve been waiting on?

Recklessness is deaths pawn
And they make a flawless team
I feel them lurking in

Every bottle I drink
Every cigarette I smoke
Every dark street I walk alone on

But I tell myself I don’t need it

It’s the wisp of the wind
The transparency of a glass
The soul of a person
I grab it in the palm of my hand, clutching to its fleeting warmth
Only knowing after it’s gone I’ll resume being cold and empty

But I tell myself I don’t need it

But there’s a thin line between what we want and what we need

So I’ll be the battered wife that stays with her abusive husband
I’ll be the alcoholic with a bible and a cross
I’ll be the homophobic man with a secret male lover
Hoping the next day I won’t awake
So everything I stuff down and suffocate will wither away inside my casket
Because the worst thing you can do is let them know
Let them know you are it
You are what they need

So I’ll gaze down this building and hope I’ll inch too close
And become a bit dizzy
And laugh a bit nervouslessy
And tease the edge with the tip of my shoe
And feel the blood rushing
To my nose
And my head
And feel the ground sinking
And the wind flowing
Hands shaking
And the rock it’s tittering, falling so fast
Gravity kills it in one swoop like it never even mattered
And the ground it all looks so awfully far away
Is this right? Is it? What about everyone else?
I’m so ******* sweaty and I’m thinking of everything of all the scenarios
The do’s and the don’ts’ and whether I should’ve given Jesus a shot
And the tears are gushing a salty mask all across my cold face
And I’ll fall and prove to them all that I was nothing but an intangible feeling
And they’ll all cry and think I was something
Worth feeling and touching and believing in and…

But I tell myself I don’t need it

The life lived in a fog
illuminated by different shades of gray
potentiating an explosion of colors
ever vividly fade into our

dreams

alliterating perfectly with
drained, dread, and dreary
bouncing off of the hard shell of reality
ricocheting through this haze we call

life

is meant to be inhaled and exhaled
with symmetrical patterns
tittering on the balance of fate and faith
inching ever closer to the center of mass:

21 grams

light it up and watch it burn
take a puff and free fall
in the high that is lower than
the lowest lows...

failure?

forces the question of whether
the shattered future will reach
its imaginary destination, or
be forever lost in this

twilight

marks the beginning of another tired cycle
weighted down by the burden of success
caught up in the monochrome movie
that parades its credits before the

ending.

Disguised in a three-piece suit,
the Cowboy has made off with Helen of Troy.
Already leagues from the rubble of city walls,
the dust rises in billows as they
fly away breakneck on his Trusty Steed.
They hear the echoing uproar breaking
at their heels. Helen's hair is a streaming
banner of war, skin flushing a ruddy apple red.
She thinks of Golden Paris in his silence
reposed in long limbed quiet on their gilded bed,
waiting for her, for the fire to peel away
their faces, the scent of burnt fruit and decadent spoils
our sacrifice to the tittering gods, the insatiable Aphrodite.

But Helen rides.
The wind smells like foreign spices waiting for
her tongue. She breathes in the sweat on the back
of the Cowboys neck. Freedom is musk and cotton,
the rumbling murmur of water channels and ravines
rocking under their feet.

They sink into the western horizon and
I turn away from their embrace,
pausing to watch glorious Troy fall into
fast decay under their lengthening shadow.

The fireflies of the summer dimmed into the past
So many things fade like dust and winter’s gusts
I’ve taken the empty words and trembling hourglasses
To sail the world with me in dazzling, chapped horizons

Endeavours upon disguises, silence in our minds
We envy the buzzing timelessness of the lighted fireflies
Chalked and restless grey, a distant opal of deceit
Unmasking, silent, and you, ever discreet

Cooling rain and sauntering songs, words and echoing tunes
Joyous dances and tittering ladies, potter through the dunes
Nostalgia and nausea rush to me, seeming none so different
While we talk and smell the hallways, so dried of yesterday

The chapel rings in amber mist, rays of tomes and light
Choral bells and bowls of memories, shine in blinding sight
Moaning in the shadow of the past, cringing past the ocean
Cloaked and yielding in the needs
Of explicit and deceptive motions.

I see you in the scent of autumn
Waving distant goodbye
As we raise our hands and talk the emptiness
Of vague and hollow skies.

This morning drenched our little world-
Fogged our vision driving in,
As the wind blew the water sideways in sheets
Which threw themselves against the windshield:
THWAPP
THWAPP
THWAPP.

The wipers fought a losing battle:
FSH-erhh
FSH-erhh
FSH-erhh.

Stepping out the driver's side door
Was like having walked the plank
And reached the end,
Emerging into nothingness,
And then endless water.

Wool socks were damp for hours
Souls were exhilarated, voices tittering ironically joyful grousings.
"Can you believe this weather?"

The tittering leaves chutter
    softly to me - embracing
    the clouded sky, portent
    to a coming
    storm.  We could not care
    any less - embrace the heavy
    clouds, a molten mood.

My thoughts are wild, omnipotent
     unhinged.  Lapping water
    tempers the coming
    rain - whispers to me with
    those newly born saplings

Coaxing me to
    freedom, release from
    pain and present

A hope in deluge

A silent thunder ignites.

Cigarette ****, cracked sidewalk, red Jeep, blue eye, green
It’ll all be as wispy as the clouds sultry streaks
That dance in my eyes
I have to look up
I have to

Perfume, ***, too much cologne, dryer sheets
I’ll hunt you with the crazed eye of my nostrils lust
But I won’t chase you down
I’ll stick my hands into my pockets and keep my eyes locked on the stop sign ahead
High heels, click click clicking, you have gum on your shoe
I say to myself
Quietly
I’ll warp my mouth into a makeshift zipper
So nothing
Not even the huff of my breath
Will make my outline crimson and bold

I’ll take out another cigarette
Two or three
To look occupied
And not twisted and contorted like my restless legs
Jutting out like a dam tittering on the edge of destruction
Your skin emanates warmth as painful as the suns elongated rays
Even those lips curling into a smile
I’ll just panic from my toes up
And there’s no telling what my limbs will end up doing
Melt and dismember into geometrical tragedies
I don’t need the quizzical stares
I’ll just make sure I don’t take my eyes off the sidewalks path
I won’t let them gleam with visions
Of empty bottles
And tatters of lives better left stuffed
Between couch cushion blues

Looking up at the sky, lanterns fall from
Distant galaxies, or perhaps from
Wherever our idea of heaven is
They pin me to the grass and light
my skin ablaze.

Alas, no burns grace my limbs as
Dewy grass blades kissed them away.
The crickets are quietly tittering
A trial against my being, judge jury
Executioner. Mother nature won’t give mercy
In the coming days

How far can my mind extend through oblivion?
Like an elder’s hand extending to memories of youth for
A taste of the past
Memories are always sweeter in retrospect
If I reach far enough maybe I can twist time to
Give me back what I lost in my creation

a ridiculed soul deemed
worthless
trapped by society's
undefeated cruelty
vile memory repressed
still lingers in his throat
the tittering grows
louder
as his laughter echoes
uncontrollably, resentful
and frightened
desiring only but one
semblance of normality
but humanity has
crumbled
how could this world
be so ruthless to someone
who they have denied
to Youー
a man born from chaos

The grind

Facing the wall again, deep awkward and painful staring at the floor
Tittering a laugh, cruelty unintended but the long grind of waiting
The stucco church, solid near the bulk shop
He started earlier than the rest and they never could catch up
He left earlier as well.



Where to turn?

Well elided turns makes a lazy talker, yes m'am, no sir
Carry over from prior months, a horror thick with worry
Fish swim no more here, Auriole has been called home
And the child she took from autistic streets rakes thoughts together
Rugged ones hardly expected success from the slower one
Well, surprise.




Stone**
Baking rays, in the shade we climb
The spider said to the vine: how art the tidings there?
Be told unlike, the searcher's dream wilts slow in a postbox
The chart burns, and discrepancy marches again.

Some morning I awake
To find myself tittering on the precipice.
Hair-thin strands of faith
Keep me dangling.
In times of strength
I can almost weave them
Into durability;
But I find then snapping
Like a guitar string
I wonder between sanity and psychosis
And though I fear the abyss
This uncertainty
Finds me longing to cut the strings.
How much longer can I endure?
This mind that I remember to be strong
Somehow isn't
And knowing that
Almost frightens me more
Than the dark uncertainty.
When
Did death began to look
Like salvation?

I held you in high regard,
your regard my deepest desire.

I wanted nothing but that spark of approval in your eyes
So I removed mine, blind to your faults,
And broke my bones, reattached them where you pleased,
mutated myself into a response to your needs.

I bent over backwards trying to make myself worthy of you,
worthy of a two second glance, of a slight uptick of lips,
when it struck me,
like a lightning bolt;
an epiphany.

I am not a contortionist.

I am not a mound of clay
to be moulded according to your expectations.

I am not water in a receptacle,
assuming the shape of it,
spreading myself thin or shrinking myself to fit.

I am the sea, the ocean, wild and free
and a little bit tempestuous,
a little bit uncertain,
a little bit blue,
but mostly,
not tamed by you-
not tempered by your desires-
not contained in your claustrophobic boundaries.

No more this simpering shadow of myself,
No more the swallowing of my words, choking on my laughter,
No more this false tittering at your behest,
No more the unravelling of my identity like a spool of thread,
No more the restitching of my being to be your best, not mine.
No more you, anymore,
Only more me.

You would not, as a rule, find her ilk in these parts;
Indeed, frat boys from the state school from a few blocks off,
Failing to heed the subtle changes inherent in the urban landscape,
Will occasionally stumble into this where-they-don’t-want –to-be
And, paying no heed to decorum or traffic regulations,
Get to some anywhere-the-hell-else in a hurry,
But she walks, oblivious yet impervious to her surroundings,
Around this part of Quail Street pretty much every day,
So much a fixture of the landscape
That she knows most of the folks on the stoops and porches by name,
Those she can’t remember bestowed with pet names
Such as “Bright Eyes” or “Little Foot”
Or some other appellation which does not engender street-respect
(Indeed, once in a while, someone unfamiliar with her repartee
Will get up with the intent to Shut that stupid ***** up,
But they are met with a restraining hand on the shoulder,
Not a confrontational grab, but a pressure which says
We just don’t do that to this lady on this street.)
Those responsible for providing sanctioned aid and comfort
Are of varied opinion as to her being help or hindrance,
Her strengths being more attuned to the mercurial than the measurable,
(Though all involved marvel at her ability
To seemingly waft into the frame when necessary,
Simply materializing to hold a baby or push a car to the curb)
And, to the outright consternation of some of the sisters from St. Rose
Who come to minister this pew-free flock,
She pays fealty to a multitude of gods
Who occupy an ever-changing hierarchy in her pantheon of deities
(But those are the catechism textbook nuns,
Whose professions of faith are rote blunt objects,
Women who confess everything but the sin of pride)
And she brightly spouts notions which centuries ago
Might have earned her a public burning at the stake,
And even now makes some of the sisters a bit uncomfortable,
Nattering on about how all things are of the same matter,
Immutable yet indestructible (though her happy mutterings
Are sometimes interrupted by an uneasy rasping cough,
And no one can say, after all, where she sleeps, how she eats)
More often than not punctuating the sing-song psalms
By kneeling to the pavement and kissing the very dust and detritus
Littering the street, all the while tittering *Holy, holy, holy—see?

Firsts of the night:
Handcuffs
Backsass scruff
Back of a paddywagon
Band of boys
But before
All this
4 outfit tries
Opinions of three
Butterfly pre potion
Then
Long hair and ripped jeans
House party
Warm smiles with new faces
Tittering across a stage
Teasing a held gaze
Before
Judgement in blue
Drunk remembrance
A Mugshot sentence
Social network presence
New name infamy
Self loathing
Backtrack scruff
Pins and needles
Sleeping pill sequel
Leads up
To a new year repeal
At the altar I kneel
For a self forgiven
A better year to live in